Elves
by Catchandelier
Summary: "W-who is she?" "Lancre." ONESHOT w/ possible continuation T for saftey
1. America

The woman's eyes were fixed at an angle exactly in between Americas eyes. Her cold, cobalt stare would be on its own enough to deter a snake from striking, but this is Alfred Jones. He is not someone who would listen to the voice of reason in the back of his head even if he actually had one. Not to say that he isn't getting an uncomfortable prickle up and down his spine; unnerving is unnerving, no matter which country you are.

She had her hair up in a bun. Her face was very severe looking. In fact, she looked as if she had been sucking on lemons most of her life.* Her intensely drab, blandly colored dress was covered by a thick black cloak. Alfred would have liked to get a closer look at her hat, but he was drawn to stare at her mottled complexion. The tears leaking down from those cobalt eyes were also an excellent deterrent to further inspection.

At one time she would have been heart-stoppingly beautiful in the same way a well-oiled sword is beautiful just before it cleaves your head open. The blood spattered over her abdomen only served to add to the image. Through the rips of her skirt, a pair of long, pale legs could be seen, criss-crossed with angry red scars and cold blue warrior tattoos. Her feet were encased in a pair of formidably sturdy boots. Peeking over their edge was a pair of socks that looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow.

At her side lay a dead cat. It wasn't a normal cat, as it was more scar tissue than fur. There were also the sad remains of a shattered broomstick, and broken glass littered the ground. An empty jug with the word 'Scumble' shakily scrawled on it lay next to her, its contents sublimating in the open mid spring air.

It was the scream, coming from within the cottage, which woke Alfred from his stupor. A young girl, no more than nine was steadily beating the skull of an elf in with a cast iron frying pan. When the last scream was cut off with a pained gurgle, the young girl looked up and turned to face America. He was, for a moment, caught in her angry glass green stare. At that moment he revised his earlier thought. This was not a nine year old girl.

"Who are you?" she said, voice scratchy with misuse.

"M-my name is Alfred J-jones. I'm the United States of America and the greatest hero ever! Um, who are you? A-and _who_ is she?"

"I'm Tiffany Aching. I'm the Sto Plains. She's Esme 'Granny' Weatherwax. She is Lancre."

"U-um what happened to her?"

"Elves. Elves happened to her."

*Not the kind that come in the jelly beans, the actual fruit. With apologies to Mr. L. Wexler of 15th Crowne Plaza. A slur is a slur.

**Sorry, if you guys really want me to, I'll make another chapter. I'm just not sure what to do.**

**PLEASE R&R! you know you wanna…**


	2. Canada

**I don't even know you guys, I don't even know. **

Later, Mathew will wonder just how he got to where he was, as it's not every day you find yourself coming to after a truly amazing pity induced bender with the side of your head pressed into the small, soft bosoms of what looks uncomfortably like a sergeant/teacher/duchess.

Who also, as it happens, happens to have a knife at your throat, is wearing an expression that is an unusual mix of anger, embarrassment, and bloody-mindedness along with her dress, which is covered with spangles and feminine fripperies, where the medals don't cover, at least, and would like some answers _RIGHT NOW SOLDIER, ARE YOU DEAF?_ The sheer level of "sergeant-ness" radiating off of her was enough to give Mathew a knee-jerk flash-back to WWI and the very first sergeant he ever met, back at basic. This one is somehow _worse_ because she's managed to combine all of the extreme fury of an angry sarge with the sheer disapproval of a schoolmarm who _knows_ you didn't do your work and is giving you that look that says "_You know what happens to little boys who don't do their work? They amount to nothing in this life or the next, Mister!_" and the intense disdain of a Duchess who knows you didn't just say what she thinks you did in front of her.

All this, of course, pales in comparison to the throbbing tap-dancing knives that've set up shop inside his skull. So, perhaps we can forgive Mathew his next few moments, when his French-ness really shines through.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but if I must not 'ave performed in a pleasing manner. My apologies. Per'aps I may try again?"

After a line like that, is it really so surprising that She cold-cocked him, but good?

…

When he came to again, along with his crackling headache, dry heaves, and fever, the burning in his face was a clear indication that he did something stupid, if he could only remember. He opens his eyes, whimpers, an closes them again.

A soft rustling sound to his left alerts him to the fact that he is not alone. He cracks one of his eyes open, and looks over towards the sound. Sitting on a low stool is the woman from earlier, her narrow-eyed gaze almost burning into him, left arm bandaged tightly. Next to her sits Kumajiro, his body a great white lump. His black eyes flash open for a second, and then with a huff, he goes back to sleep.

She smiles grimly, and says to him "Who are you?"

He blinks, startled, and then says "Mathew Wil—."

She glares at him, and says "Who are you, really?"

He blinks, and then says "Canada."

She grins, and says "My name is Polly, or sometimes Oliver, but it's really Borogravia."

Mathew nods, Polly smiles, and Kumajiro snores.

**Umm… not really sure what else to do here…**


End file.
